Some years ago, my father-in-law gave me a secondhand boxset of facsimile editions of the first ten Penguins, released in 1985 to celebrate the industry giant’s fiftieth anniversary.
My TBR pile being what it is, to my shame I only gave it a cursory glance, which showed me that it included works by some of the biggest names of the mid-twentieth century anglophone literary scene: Agatha Christie, Ernest Hemingway and Dorothy L. Sayers among them.
Recently, however, as I was pondering my choices for my year of reading nothing new, the collection caught my eye. Surely there wouldn’t have been any translations in that list of first ten Penguin titles, which proved so successful that the imprint became an independent publisher the following year?
I was wrong. There was one. The very first title, in fact. And it was hardly the book I would have expected to be chosen to launch a publishing venture setting out to offer affordable contemporary fiction.
Ariel by André Maurois, translated from the French by Ella D’Arcy and published originally by the Bodley Head in 1924 before coming out as the first Penguin in 1935, is a biography of the major Romantic poet Percy Bysshe Shelley. Picking up from its subject’s unhappy time at Eton College and following him through his rise to fame, turbulent friendship with Byron, marriages and the trauma of his children’s deaths, up until his drowning at the age of 29, the book offers a compelling portrait of this singular figure, whose personality ‘poured outwards in a sort of luminous fringe melting into that of his friends, and even into that of perfect strangers’.
Seeing a famous English writer portrayed through French eyes is illuminating. Throughout the opening pages of the book, there is a subtle locating of Shelley in relation to French concerns, from the impact of the French Revolution on the education system that shaped him, to his early reading of Francophone authors. (‘To love these Frenchmen, so hated by his masters, seemed an act of defiance worthy of his courage.’) It is an intriguing example of the way texts centre certain readers by amplifying particular elements or concerns – one of the questions we often explore in my Incomprehension Workshop.
Narrated with engaging wit, the book brims with brilliant anecdotes. A particular favourite of mine is the account of Shelley’s father opening unlimited credit for his son at a bookseller’s in Oxford when he started there as a student: ‘My son here,’ he said, pointing good-humouredly to the wild-haired youth with luminous eyes who stood by, ‘has a literary turn, Mr Slatter. He is already the author of a romance’ – it was the famous Zastrozzi – ‘and if he wishes to publish again, do pray indulge him in his printing freaks.’
With such enthusiastic backing, how could Shelley have failed to take the literary world by storm?
Depictions like these make for a rich and engrossing reading experience. And there is something deeply reassuring and satisfying about the certainty with which Maurois recounts unknowable thoughts and conversations – from the responses of local children watching the recovery of Shelley’s remains to the musings of the young Shelley in the midst of his childhood games.
But there is something unsettling about this too. Such readiness to put words and thoughts into the mouths and minds of those he describes bespeaks an authorial confidence that I find troubling as a writer. While it is seductive to think that such clarity is possible, it is problematic, harking back to a time when authority was perhaps less readily questioned.
This is particularly true when it comes to the unexamined generalisations, assumptions and prejudices that pepper the pages and are stated as fact – everything from the tightfistedness of Scots (‘the citizens of Edinburgh, difficult to get at where their purse is concerned’) to the solution to the Irish question (‘Instead of expecting their freedom from the British, the Irish should free themselves by becoming sober, just, and charitable’).
Women bear the brunt of this. ‘It is rare that pretty women show a taste for dangerous ideas,’ Maurois informs us. ‘Beauty, the natural expression of law and order, is conservative by essence.’ Well, slap my face and call me a Gorgon!
In addition, there are multiple references to Shelley ‘forming’ both his wives, as well as a disturbingly blithe description of him spending an evening in the bedroom of the 16-year-old Harriet when she is ill – ‘next day Harriet was quite well.’ In such cases, a skewed power dynamic seems, if anything, to be a cause for celebration in Maurois’s eyes.
Such a blend of empathy and blindness showing up in this book first published exactly 100 years ago is intriguing. What assumptions and blind spots crowd the work of contemporary writers?
This is one of the joys of reading internationally: it allows us to recognise the narrowness of certain ideas and assumptions by throwing them into relief against stories that work on quite different terms. All credit, then, to Penguin pioneer Allen Lane for launching his bid to take the mass market by storm with a translation – and not just any translation but a reprint of a biography of a poet to boot. What commercial house today would do the same?
Ariel by André Maurois, translated from the French by Ella D’Arcy (Penguin, 1935; 1985)